The One And Only
by In The Loft
Summary: From an abused child, to the infamous prodigy of stealing, this tells the story of the one, and only - Artful Dodger.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

**So, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I LOVE The Artful Dodger, and am very confused as to why he has not made much of an appearance in any of my other fanfictions. BUT I mean to make this all better by writing this story about the life of everyone's favourite pickpocket – The Artful Dodger. I own nothing. *sobs* **

The houses rose barely discernable through the night fog. Yellow and slimy it had settled around London from the River. Faint pinpricks of starlight shone feebly from behind a veil of straggling clouds, which persisted in sliding across the sliver of moon visible.

It was bitingly cold – the sort of weather that would kill an infant with one puff. Only the most foolish of mothers would bring their child into the world at that moment.

One such mother lay pale, on a thin mattress in a dark room, with a tiny morsel of a boy wailing in her arms. Abruptly – upon realising he wasn't getting any attention – he stopped, opening his eyes and blinking up at his mother as if to check she was still there.

The woman opened her eyes too, and smiled faintly at her son. She was a pretty woman, in a timid, pale sort of way. The baby had inherited her stormy eyes, but not the long fairy hair that hung over her shoulders. She had a bruise across one cheek and a graze over one eye.

Hugging the child close to her frail form, the woman placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, and hummed him a lullaby.

He drifted off to sleep, and she cradled him in her arms, nothing but love in her gaze.

There was a bang, and the door flew open, smacking the wall.

"Nora! You in 'ere?" A man hulked in the doorway. Only his eyes shone in the gloom – like cats eyes.

"Yeah John. I'm 'ere," Nora called. Her voice was slightly hoarse. "Come an' meet yer son."

John Dawkins seemed to scratch his head.

"Nah," he growled, after a slight pause.

"But John -"

"What's 'is name?" he said, cutting across her.

"Jack – after you, yeah?"  
"Good."

John Dawkins senior seemed to be on the verge of speaking again, but he left instead, the door shutting loudly behind him. The sound of clinking bottles could be heard from the other side of the bedroom door.

Nora kissed her sleeping son's forehead, softly.

"You sleep well now, baby," she whispered. "An' I'll wake you in the morning."

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**I don't own anything. **

John Dawkins worked at the factory. It was – apparently – a very hard job, that paid well, and he was – supposedly – very good at it.

If the young Jack knew what any of those words meant, he would undoubtedly have wondered if the hardworking breadwinner and the careless father who was never sober and always penniless were the same man at all.

The months changed – December melted into the New Year, and the icy weather warmed.

Nora – who had caught a cough during the cold season – got better. Jack grew – he was now six months, and could crawl like anything – and developed the curious instinct that possesses any child like a demon. And the father came home late, every night, stinking of alcohol.

The hovel they lived in was two dark, grotty rooms on the bottom floor of an even darker, grottier apartment building. It was a death trap for kids.

"No! Darlin', Jack!" Nora lunged for her son, scooping him up in her arms. "Not _again_! We _don't _try to climb outta the window!"

Jack – blinking up at his haggard yet amused mother – was the most mischievous child ever. It was the sixth time he had almost flopped out of the window. How he got up to the sill in the first place was anyone's guess.

"Go," he said, happily, snuggling down in Nora's embrace, and drifting off to sleep. Laying him down on the bed, and tucking him up, Nora ducked into the other room.

A candle stub – with wax crawling up the stem – was on the table. Next to it was a bottle – half empty – and uncorked. Sighing, Nora put it into the cupboard, talking to herself as she did so.

"An' 'e'll come 'ome drunk again. Wonderin' where the gin went. 'As 'e met 'is child yet, huh? Don' think so... Shoulda named 'im after _my _father."

She cast a look heavenward – searching for her father in the ceiling, then, as her gaze fell on the open bedroom door, and the sleeping child, she softened.

"Oh... 'Oo am I kiddin'? 'E loves Jack. Course 'e does. Wot sorta man doesn' love 'is own kid?"

Nora smiled fondly in the direction of heer sleeping son.

"Hush now lovie," she whispered though the boy showed no signs of stirring. In a lower voice, but slightly snappier, she continued to rant.

"Wors' mistake I ever made, marryin' ''ve been drunk, yeah? I don' love 'im, an' 'e certainly _'ates _me!"

Nora raised a hand to her forehead, where there was a bruise – livid against her pale face.

"But we'll get by, yeah?" she asked, unconvinced by the idea herself.

In the semi lit bedroom, Jack rolled onto his side, still fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**I am not Charles Dickens, and I don't own anything. **

"NORA! Blas' it all! Where _is _that BLOODY woman when you need 'er? NORA!"

John Dawkins' shout shook the little home.

"I'm 'ere, I'm 'ere, ain't I?" Nora snapped, throwing open the bedroom door with Jack in her arms.

"Don' talk back to me," John growled. "Where's all the money gone?"

Nora shrugged, her grip on Jack tightening.

"Dunno, do I? You 'ave it."

Her gaze, and the baby's, travelled to the smashed pieces of the glass jar where the little money that had was kept, on the table. John looked there too, and maybe he was guilty, because when he had shattered the jar the night before, going to collect the coins that rolled out, he had been in a blind, drunken rage.

"_Well_..." he blustered, then – unable to cope with the new found conscience, strung out at his wife. Nora ducked, shielding Jack with one arm.

"No! John! The baby! Jack!" she pleaded, cowering over him in the doorway.

John retreated, and Nora, hardly daring to believe her luck, scurried into the bedroom, depositing Jack on the bed.

He stared at her from his grey eyes – mirrors of her own – and, as she turned away at John's call, he blinked, looking confused.

The bedroom door closed, and there was a loud thump. Jack rolled onto his front, wriggling down the bed, his face reddened with the effort. Then, slipping ungracefully off the bed, he crawled to the door shut to him.

From the other side came the sound of smashing glass.

Jack stared at the door, with a dulled knowledge inside him. At that moment he knew, somehow, that his mother – who treated him with nothing but adoration – was only protecting him against the scary man who lived with them. She did nothing to defend herself against the blows he could hear being rained down on her.

Nora was kneeling on the floor by the door, her arms over her head to shield herself from her husband.

She was not brave. She ranted in private, but bit her lip and bore it when anyone else was nearby.

She had pride – and it would have refused to be squashed even if she had been brave enough to stand up to John.

Eventually – John left – the door slamming shut behind him as he went, probably to the pub. Nora prised herself off the floor, and peered into the dirty mirror hanging at angle on the wall opposite.

Her blonde hair fell over one eye, and the other was blackened. Her lip was bleeding and she had a bruise beginning on her forehead.

Not a sound came from the bedroom, so, supposing Jack was asleep, Nora collapsed into one of the chairs gathered around the table, resting her head in her arms.

Humiliation burned deep inside her, and if she had had the courage she would have taken Jack and left.

In the bedroom, the grey eyed child sat and waited.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Two

**I am so very extremely sorry for the long wait. I will try my absolute hardest to sit down and write this as often as I can. Oh right yes – I don't really know what version I'm basing this of :/ A kind of strange mixture between 1968, 1997 and the 2010 production in the West End at the minute. You can really see any of them however you like. **** On with the show – and as usual, I own nil.**

As Jack grew older he began to hate his father.

It wasn't the right thing to feel towards your parent, but having been brought up with hardly any guidance at all – he hardly knew otherwise, and anyway – John Dawkins senior was the most hard hearted father, abusive husband the crumbling apartment building they lived in had ever seen. And that was truly an achievement.

Jack was four years old when he was offered the job.

His father came home one night in the late summer with an unsettling grin on his grimy face.

"'Ello boy," he growled at Jack who was glaring at him from a pitiful supper.

"'Ello," the child replied stiffly.

"You'll be pleased with your old man, boy, so you will," John said gruffly.

He either missed or ignored the sceptical look Jack gave him.

"NORA," John roared, tired of waiting. Nora hurried in and stood behind her soon, her hands twisting her apron strings nervously.

"Yeah?"

"I got Jack a job," John said.

"Wot?" Nora sounded faint. "'E's only a baby!"

"No 'e ain't," John's eyes flashed. "'E'll be startin' tomorrow – same time as Albert's son Art. Four's a grand age to start, ain't it boy?"

Jack said nothing, slightly confused by it all.

"Jack, love, 'ow about you go and play outside for a bit yeah?" Nora asked – although it was more of an order than a suggestion. Jack slid off his chair and was shooed outside.

The door was shut behind him and he sat on the front step, the wind ruffling his hair. He stooped to draw a smiley face in the dirt. From inside came the sounds of another heated argument.

Jack could not make out the words – it sounded like a slurred yell (like his father when he was drunk) but by the end of it he was in bed – a working man... Or boy.

John woke especially early the next morning, keen to get to the factory to show off his son. Nora hadn't slept, sitting alone in the darkness of the one room while her husband and son slept in the other. At five she rose to wake them both, and to take special care in tying Jack's shabby boot laces, flattening his messy never-been-brushed hair and helping him into his jacket, already patched at the elbows because it had been given by a neighbour whose son could no longer fit into it.

John took the child's small hand in his own big one and left the house without saying goodbye to Nora. Jack had to run to keep up with his father, who was striding purposefully down the road always a little ahead of the boy.

"You excited, eh, boy?" John said, without looking down at his son. "You'll be meetin' the foreman first off, an' then you'll start."

The foreman turned out to be a burly man with a shock of red curly hair and a flat nose called Hillson. He examined Jack closely, who flushed, not liking all the attention fixated on him.

"'E's a bit small," Hillson sniffed.

"Well, 'e'll grow," John promised. Jack saw with interest his father was sweating slightly.

"'Ow old is 'e?"

"Six," John lied instantly.

"No I ain't. I'm – " Jack was cut off by his father's hand.

"Bit young, but the boss won't mind will 'e?" Hillson chuckled, and his father joined in.

Their laughter made Jack feel frightened, because it was loud and mocking. Tears began to fill up in his eyes but he swallowed them down, making a stern pact with himself then and there that he would never give his father the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

**Please review and tell me what you think. **


	5. Chapter 5

**I am so sorry for the wait. Words cannot express how sorry I am. :/ I own nothing.**

Chapter Five

The factory that Jack and his father worked at was a fabric printing one. The stench of paint was everywhere – and at first it made Jack's head swim, and his stomach flop over. His father would simply clap him hard on the back and say;

"You'll get used to it."

Jack wasn't entirely sure he _wanted _to get used to it. He rarely saw Nora now. She would be the first thing he saw in the morning – an anxious, pale figure leaning against the doorway – and the last thing at night. In between, he was alone.

Well, not completely alone. One of John's friends had a little boy the same age as Jack. They got along very well – although at that age, children find it very hard to be enemies. Their job was to slide around under the big vats of paint, mopping it up from below, and to pick up any stray pieces of muslin or calico left around. They also had to run under the rickety tables where sewing machines were balanced, and cut off with a pair of tiny, but deadly sharp, scissors any loose threads. Jack had only been working there two months, but he had developed a cough, and was blackened and bruised from crawling around on the floor all day.

His friend was called Arthur, but everyone called him Art. He had dark blonde hair, and was very small and frail looking. They did their work together, following each other around the dark factory, waiting as one was sent to mop up a paint spillage or dart under one of the whirring machines. At midday, they both sat at a window to eat their lunch.

Art's finger squeaked across the dirty glass of the window pane, tracing a wobbly 'A' in the grime. Jack watched with interest.

"What's tha'?" he asked. Art grinned.

"It's an A. A for Art." Jack looked at his friend with new found respect.

"You can write?" he said. No one he knew could write – his father could manage a feeble 'X' if it ever came to signing anything, and his mother was completely illiterate.

"Jus' a bit," Art said. "Look, I'll show you."

He redrew the 'A'. Jack copied it several times before he was satisfied with it. Tilting his head to one side, he tried to see how the thing – that looked a bit like a rooftop – was a letter, and how that letter could make words, and sentences, and how it was that letter which made up the books in bookshops, and the words in the Bible.

"Cor," he said, awed.

He made a plan to show Nora the letter when he returned home that evening, and spent the rest of the afternoon in a slight daze, doing things automatically. John wasn't pleased with him when they walked home together.

"Keep on like that, an' you'll get 'urt," he growled. Jack blinked – could it be _concern _his father was showing him? "An' we won' 'ave as much money if you're outta work."

Dreams of a loving family shattered in Jack's mind and he glared at the ground, scuffing his boots against the cobbles. They passed a grotty pub, and John stopped, the hand in his pocket turning over the coins he'd earned.

"I'm goin' in," he announced. "Tell yer mother." Jack said nothing. "I said – _tell yer mother._"  
"Yeah," Jack said, shrugging off the hand John had on his shoulder, and heading down the road, a fierce exhilaration burning inside of him, for he had defied his father for the first time.

He banged on the front door, and Nora threw it open, kneeling down to hug him.

"Hello my darling," she said, kissing his forehead. "Where's your father?"

"Pub," Jack said. "Look – I can write."

He dragged Nora outside, and demonstrated his new skill in the mud. They weren't really 'A's - more of squiggly lines drawn in the vague shape of one, but it was a start, and Nora looked at them without understanding.

"That's wonderful!" she said. "You'll be a right little gentleman when you grow up won' you?"

Jack tried to imagine himself in a suit, with carriages, and a mansion, but couldn't. Still – the idea seemed to make Nora happy, so he grinned.

"Yeah," he agreed. "What's for dinner?"

She laughed, and hurried into the kitchen to make something.

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	6. Chapter 6

**I am so so **_**so **_**sorry about the wait. Now it's the holidays I'll try and get more up sooner. Anyway – this is an important chapter overall, so – I hope you enjoy it. I own nothing.**

Chapter Six

Now he was six, (almost seven), Jack was given more freedom. His father often sent him out to get bread in the evening, and he liked the short periods of time he spent on his own. Sometimes he would meet Art in the street and they would go up to the bakery together, but more often than not it would be a solitary journey there and back.

It was September, and he was walking slower than normal, due to the fact he'd fallen over in the factory that morning and hurt his ankle. Limping along one of the dark, stinking alleys that criss-crossed towards the high street, clutching a coin in his hand, Jack paused – thinking he had heard something from behind him.

The boy sped up, remembering horror stories about kids in dark alleys disappearing, and being found months later drifting up the Thames with their throat slit, when a figure emerged from a doorway, and cut right across Jack's path.  
"'Ello, m'dear," the figure wheezed. "An' what would you 'ave in your 'and?"  
"Nothin'," Jack said, defiantly, putting his hands behind his back.  
"Don' need to lie to me, m'dear, don' need to lie to Ol' Fagin – "  
"I ain' lyin' to nobody!" Jack said, trying to get past the man, who moved (surprisingly quickly for a man of his apparent age) abruptly to the right – blocking him.

Man and boy examined each other for a long moment. This 'Fagin' was certainly the oddest character Jack had seen. He was bald, and wrinkled – the lower half of his head obscured by a tangled orange beard. Bushy eyebrows protruded over dark eyes. He wore an assortment of clothes – a dirty shirt under a fine, if slightly ragged, waistcoat, trousers that might once have been bottle green, but were now so filthy with the grime of London's streets that they were black, and boots with scuffed toes and chewed laces.  
"Is your hair that colour nat'rally?" Jack asked, curiously. Fagin cackled.  
"Indeed it is, m'dear, indeed it is. Can I ask o' your name?"  
"Jack," Jack said.  
"Jack what, m'dear?"  
"Jack... Why?"  
"Curiosity, m'dear, jus' curiosity."

Nonetheless, Jack didn't answer the man's question, and a silence stretched between them, during which Jack wondered whether he could duck under the man's arms and make a break for it. Then –

"M'dear – do you 'ave a means of... _employment_?"  
"Yeah, I do," Jack said.  
"An' does it pay well?"  
"Um... I don' know."  
"You don't know?"  
"Well – my father takes all the money, don' 'e?"  
"Oh. I see. A father. Well, you best be on your way, m'dear. The bakery's near closing."

Jack's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"'Ow'd you know I was goin' there?"

But the man had vanished – slipping into the shadows of a neighbouring alley, and nobody answered his question.

Perplexed, Jack went on his way.

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	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

**I'm back :/ And I'm so sorry for the wait. This is a bit of a filler, but things will be happening next chapter. This kind of... leads onto it This chapter refers to a lot of Victorian factory stuff... I did a massive project on this sort of thing last year, so I'm **_**pretty **_**sure I've got everything right, but if I haven't, please tell me! **

"'Ello Jack!"

Art appeared at Jack's elbow, and grinned broadly – displaying a gap-toothed mouth.

"I lost 'nother tooth last night."  
"Lucky," Jack said, enviously.  
"Yeah – " Art interrupted himself with a hacking cough that had him doubled up, clutching his stomach. When he straightened up again, his eyes were watering. "Yeah..." he continued, his voice weak. "But you'll catch up."

He grinned again, and pushed his tongue through the gap. Jack glowered at him. It was a long standing competition between the boys – who could lose all their milk teeth first. Art was steaming ahead. Jack consoled himself with the fact that he was a few good inches taller than his friend. At home however, this was rapidly becoming another reason for Nora and John to fight. John insisted that Nora was feeding their son too much – and if he kept growing at the rate he was, he wouldn't be able to do his job as a piecer anymore.

The foreman seemed to agree. He had taken to standing behind Jack as he worked, as if measuring him.

Jack couldn't see the problem with him not working. He was eight by now, and there had been a flurry of boys and girls his age coming to work. Only last week, one of them – a tall, lanky boy called James – had broken his leg when a table and the sewing machine on top of it collapsed on him. According to Art's sister, one of the girls in another room had died from fume inhalation. Jack and Art had had a long conversation after finding this out, and both decided to wear their neckerchiefs around their mouths whenever they went to mop up beneath the dye vats.

Jack had told his mother this when he went home that evening.

"A girl died last night. Did you know that?" he had begun. Nora – cutting the remains of a stone hard loaf into pieces – stiffened.  
"In your father's factory?"  
"Yeah. In the factory. She died of fume exhilaration. I think that's the word."  
"Oh dear."

Nora turned, and kissed her son's forehead.

"So Art an' me said we'd wear our neckerchiefs round our mouths whenever we went beneath the dye vats.

"Very clever," Nora smiled. "Art would be Mrs Taylor's youngest?"  
"Well... yeah, I s'pose. Mmm..."

Nora had set the plate down in front of him, and Jack dug in eagerly.

"Poor thing," Nora said, sadly. "You keep on wearin' that neckerchief."  
"Why is Art a poor thin'?" Jack said, through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

Nora hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"You boys are all poor thins, for 'avin' to work for so long. I barely see you anymore!"

She kissed him on the nose, and the subject was dropped.

**Review? (Next one will be up soon, I promise. I know where it's going )**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

**Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed, it means a lot. And I updated within a weel *feels proud* This chapter is, in a way, the beginning of it all. So... Enjoy! **

Jack Dawkins was going to remember this day for the rest of his life. Not that he'd have known it from the way the morning started, because it was perfectly normal until around noon.

He'd been awoken by the sound of shouting – his parents having their usual pre-breakfast fight. When he'd dressed, and taken special care over his shoelaces, he went into the kitchen, and found Nora facing the wall so no one would see the angry tears spilling down her cheeks or the fresh bruise blooming on her forehead, and John nursing his knuckles at the table.

"'Ello darlin'," Nora said – her voice tight with restraint. "Your breakfast's on the table. Eat it up quickly. Your father wants to leave."  
"'E can eat it on the way," John grunted. "Can' you, boy?"  
"Yeah, I s'pose," Jack replied, looking anxiously at his mother. "Are you alrigh'?"  
"I'm fine, darlin'. Off you go to work now. Take care, lovie."

Which was how Jack found himself stumbling along in his father's wake, cramming his slice of bread in his mouth so the big kids wouldn't steal it when he got into the factory.

"C'mon, boy!" John snapped, without turning around. Jack glowered at his father's back, and amused himself with imagining ways to torture the older man. They passed the alley Jack had once met a strange old man – Fagin, his name had been – in, and the boy briefly wondered whether the man was still alive, and what he was doing. He'd seemed alright. Strange, certainly, but fairly nice.

"Daydreamin' again, are we, son?" the foreman asked, as father and son entered the factory. Jack nodded, wondering what the question had been, and the foreman chuckled. "Growin', ain' 'e John? We'll be movin' 'im up soon enough."  
"Yeah," John said, shooting a filthy look at Jack as if it was his fault children grew. "We'll 'ave to."

Jack escaped into the workroom, and hurried to find Art. His friend was sitting by one of the machines, his sandy head shaking up and down as he coughed loudly.  
"'Ello Art," Jack said.  
"'Ell-'Ello Jack."  
"You alrigh'?"  
"Yeah," Art said, wiping his streaming eyes on his sleeve and blinking rapidly. "Jus' got a bit of a cough, y'know?"  
"I know," Jack agreed. "I 'ad one earlier. In the winter."  
"Yeah. I probably still got that."

Art coughed again. It sounded painful.

"OI! You two! Stop natterin', and get over 'ere. I got a thread loose over 'ere."

Jack tapped Art's shoulder.  
"I'll do this one."

Art gave him a thumbs up, still coughing, and Jack rushed off to snip the loose thread. He returned with a small slit in his palm, from dropping the scissors.  
"Sorry mate. That shoulda been my injury," Art said.  
"Nah," Jack shook his head. "It don't 'urt much, anyway."

Art grinned.

The morning passed. The two friends joked around with the other boys in the room – occasionally hurrying to help snip a thread, or clean beneath the vats – Art and Jack hoisting their neckerchiefs round their mouths before they went.

"Only a bit left til lunch," one of the elder boys hissed to Jack and Art, at quarter to twelve. "Lunch is when both the clock 'ands are pointin' up."  
"'E's clever, ain' 'e?" Jack said, admiringly, as the boy went off.  
"Nah. 'E just saw a pattern. Anyone can do that." Art said. "I'd 'ave noticed it, if I'd been lookin' at the clock."  
"Yeah. Me too, I s'pose."

They looked round – checking if anyone was beckoning them over.

"Loose thread!" Art said. "I've got this one."

He ran off.

Jack turned to look up at the clock. _When both hands point upwards. _There weren't any hands on the clock. Art was right – that boy wasn't very clever after all.

At that moment there was a crash, and then a woman cried out.

Everyone surged forward – duties abandoned, eager to see what had happened. Jack shouldered his way to the front.

His organs shifted – his heart dropping to his stomach, his stomach dropping through the floor and his lungs forgetting how to work, because there was a broken table, and a broken machine, and a broken body lying on the floor. And the broken body was Art.

"Art...?" he whispered, into the silence. His voice carried as loudly as if he had shouted. "Art... are you okay?"

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	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

**Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed – it means a lot. As normal I own nothing. Sigh. **

Art was dead.

Deaddeaddead.

Sure, he'd heard about death before, but it had never seemed to close, so real, so _scary. _But now... Someone Jack knew was dead. And he wasn't coming back.

It was strange.

It had been five days since The Incident. Everyone else had moved on. The gossip was now about Ruth Jones, who was pregnant but not married. The broken machinery had been cleared away. But Jack hadn't forgotten – how could he forget? He half expected to see Art coming up, neckerchief pressed over mouth, waving madly at him.

The funeral was to take place that afternoon. It wasn't much of a funeral – more of a commemorative service the factory had provided. They'd paid for the cheapest grave possible, in the nearest graveyard.

Jack had been invited – most of the factory had. That was why he was walking home alone, half an hour early, choosing not to stay and eat after the funeral. John would undoubtedly be furious that his son hadn't waited, but Jack didn't really care. He felt... numb.

It began to rain just as Jack passed the pub. He broke into a run – keeping up the pace for the rest of the journey. His hurried footsteps matched the sound of rain hitting the cobbles. _Thump – thump – thump. _

"I'm 'ome," he called, as he entered the house. It was empty, and dark. "Mum? It's jus' me. _'E's _still at the funeral. Mum?"  
"You alone?" Nora's voice came from the bedroom. It was hoarse, nervous.  
"Yeah. Are you alrigh'?"

Nora appeared in the doorway. She had on her faded bonnet, and was holding a bundle. Her mouth was set in a slanted, determined line.

"We're leavin' Jackie."  
"What?"  
"We're leavin'. Now, Jackie. C'mon. I've packed all our things. I've got us bread and cheese for today, and a few coins."  
"_Leavin_'? Without _'im_?"  
"Without your father. We're runnin' away from 'im Jackie."

For the first time in five days, Jack felt something. A flicker of... hope, perhaps?

"Where will we go?"  
"I don't know yet, but we'll find somewhere. I promise."  
"It's rainin'."  
"I know."

Nora bundled her son out into the street, and put an arm around his shoulders, steering him down the road. The rain was falling heavily. Jack could barely see his mother, let alone the street ahead.

"I've been thinkin' about Art, an' what I'd do if I lost you, and I decided I 'ad to do this. For you. I'm not brave Jackie, but we'll do this. Together. You an' me."  
"Yeah." Jack said.

He couldn't help but remember his mother's weak chest – that had caused her problems earlier in the year. He wished it would stop raining. He imagined he heard footsteps on the cobbles, and his heart leapt into his throat, thinking it was his father.

But it wasn't.

Jack was never sure how long they walked. He had barely left the little maze of alleyways that surrounded his house, and his regular haunts consisted of the factory, the bakery and the pub. All he knew was that when they reached Covent Garden it was deserted.

"We'll spend the night 'ere, yeah darlin'?" Nora said, ushering her son over to a doorway that was mercifully dry.

They huddled in the shadows, and Jack drifted off into an uneasy sleep. His last conscious thought was that, for the first time in a long time, his mother sounded happy.

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	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Jack didn't know what had woken him until he opened his eyes. Then he yelled in fright, and sat up abruptly.

A man – no, not _a _man, _the _man – was bending over him. When Jack yelled, he jumped, and moved backwards quickly.

"Yer alrigh' then," he wheezed. "I though' you an' yer mother might be dead."  
"No," Jack said, taking his mother's wrist and checking her pulse just in case. "No. What are _you _doin' 'ere?"

The man looked out of place among the busy stallholders, who were bustling around setting up their wares and talking loudly to one another. He kept casting uneasy glances over his shoulder, and his back was even more bent than Jack remembered.

"I was told there was a lad in Covent Garden by one of me boys," the man replied. "Forgot to mention 'e 'ad a mother."  
"One of your boys?" Jack repeated. "You 'ave sons?"  
"No!" the man sounded horrified by the idea. "It's a secret, m'dear. But if you were... ah... ever in some sort o' trouble... You could find me."

He winked. Jack just looked confused.

"Ev'ry path leads to ol' Fagin, if ol' Fagin wants to be found," the man elaborated, jabbing a thumb into his chest to illustrate the point.  
"Uh-huh," Jack said, sceptically. "Righ'. Well... If you're... I'm jus'... Yeah."

Truth be told, he was slightly unnerved by Fagin. It wasn't just his wild appearance, but it that he'd turned up like a bolt from the blue after years, and seemed to know exactly who Jack was. To mask his confusion, he turned and made for the bundle he knew he'd been using as a pillow the night before. It had gone. He let out a yelp of outrage.  
"Did you take it?" he accused Fagin, angrily. "Did you take our bundle?"  
"Course not, m'dear," Fagin said, raising his bushy eyebrows. "There are an _awful _lot of thieves round 'ere. You shouldn' 'ave left it unguarded all night."  
"It wasn't unguarded!" Jack said, hotly. "I was sleepin' on it."

Fagin didn't seem to think this deserved a reply, because he merely ruffled Jack's hair.  
"Remember, m'dear. All paths lead to Fagin, eh?"

And he withdrew a loaf of bread from his pocket, threw it at Jack, and scuttled off.

"Wake up," Jack said, nudging his mother. "I got us breakfast."  
"Hmm...?" Nora said, sleepily. She raised her head, and blinked at her son. "Jackie? What – " She seemed to remember though, because she smiled suddenly, and sat up, stretching. "That was rather undignified, wasn' it Jackie? We should probably find somewhere else to sleep from now on. You got us breakfast?"  
"Oh, yeah," Jack said, breaking the loaf into two pieces and handing the bigger one to his mother.

She smiled at him, and made to bite into it, before beginning to cough furiously. Jack was reminded of Art as he thumped her back.  
"Are you alrigh'?" he asked, when she had stopped coughing.  
"I'm fine, darlin'," Nora insisted. "Jus' fine. Now, let's think 'bout what we're gonna do with ourselves."

* * *

Over the next week or so, Nora went to every bakery, grocer and butcher nearby to see if she could secure a job. The shop owners would take a look at her slightly grimy face and shabby clothes, and then see the eight year old hanging off her skirts, and practically push her out of the shop.

She took to traipsing around the pubs, to see if they needed a waitress. The landlords were the same as the shop owners.

"This is the last one, Jackie," Nora said, anxiously, staring up at a weatherworn sign announcing _The Three Cripples. _"Stay close, darlin'."

They went inside, and Nora requested to see the landlord. He came out a moment or so later, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth.  
"'Ello love. What can I do for you? Gin? Beer?"  
"Oh, no, thank you sir," Nora said. "I'm 'ere to –"

She started coughing, and doubled over. When she straightened up to begin talking again, her voice was hoarse.

"Sorry sir. I'm 'ere about a job?"  
"We don' need anyone righ' now, miss."

Nora visibly wilted. The landlord looked sympathetic.

"'Ave you though' about sellin' flowers or somethin'?"  
"Well, yeah, I 'ave sir. Thank you for your time. C'mon darlin'." She put an arm around Jack's shoulders, and steered him out of the shop. The landlord came to the door, and handed them a penny loaf and a hunk of cheese, with a kindly smile. Nora flushed slightly, but accepted it with a curtsey.  
"Thank you sir."  
"Welcome, miss."

Nora swept down the dark street outside, and the landlord bent close to Jack's ear.  
"Keep an eye on your mother, kid."  
"Huh?" Jack looked up. The landlord hesitated for a moment – and Jack was strongly reminded of his mother in the kitchen of their old home, after Jack had told her about his and Art's plan to cover their mouths with their neckerchiefs.  
"Nasty cough. Winter's comin' on strong."

And he went back into the pub.

_Nasty cough. Winter's coming on strong._

Jack bit his lip hard, and ran after his mother.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed, you're all wonderful. I hope this chapter's OK, I'm a bit ehh about it, but I felt really cruel for not updating sooner and all that jazz. : ) So I own nothing. **

It was a multitude of familiar sounds and smells that brought Jack back to consciousness. Nora was clattering around in the kitchen, and John was puffing at a clay pipe. The boy blinked his eyes open. The ceiling above him was strung with cobwebs. There was a large gap of wall missing opposite him, and rain was dripping through it, into a bucket waiting below.

A woman in a red dress was loading bread and cheese onto a tin plate. A man with a beard and curly black hair sat at a _tiny_table, his knees brushing the edge, huffing away through the mouth of his pipe. They were not Nora and John. Jack sat up, and the blankets that had been pulled up to his neck fell away. The man turned at the movement, and sniffed.  
"Nance. The kid's awake."  
"Oh!" Nancy dropped the plate and hastened over to the bed. She felt Jack's forehead, and then smoothed back his hair. "You alrigh' my love?"  
"Yeah, I..." Jack's voice caught as it hit him. _Nora__was__dead.__He__was__alone._Tears welled up in his eyes, and Nancy gathered him up into a hug, rocking him gently, humming a ditty in a soft voice.  
"You ain' gonna be alone now, alrigh'?" Nancy says gently. "Fagin thinks you'd be a valuable member to the gang."

She says it slightly bitterly, and Jack looks up, still crying silently.  
"Wha'?"  
"The gang. Fagin's lot. Where I come from. Kids your age. It's... fun."  
"My mummy wouldn' want me to steal," Jack says, his voice cracking on the last word. Bill grunted angrily.  
"Well yer muvver's _dead_, ain' she."  
"_Bill_!"

The man shrugged and returned to his pipe. Nancy wiped the tears from Jack's pale cheeks.  
"So, what do we call you, 'ey my love?"  
"Jack Dawkins," Jack said, sullenly.  
"Problems wiv your old man?" Nancy says, sympathetically. "We've all got 'em. Some worse than others. We 'ad a kid a few years ago 'oo reinvented 'imself. What did he call 'imself, Bill?"  
"The Fiddler," Bill replied snappily.  
"Tha' was it." Nancy nodded.  
"Oh?" Jack said. He brushed away the last of his tears and fixed his eyes on the woman. "Why?"  
"Cos he played a violin," Nancy explained. "Nice boy."  
"Not quick enough," Bill snarled from the corner. "Got 'imself caught."

Nancy sighed.  
"Always the good 'uns," she agreed. "But not you, love. You'll dodge 'em all. Done a pretty good job of it so far. Artful, one might say." Jack started.  
"Wha'?"  
"Artful..."  
"Oh..." he said, burrowing back under the coverlet. "I though' you said Art."  
"You knew one?"

Jack nodded.  
"'E died," he said, his voice muffled by the thin blankets. Nancy pulled him up.  
"C'mon," she said. "Mister Gloomy-Guts, let's get you some fresh air."

Bill coughed, and Nancy turned to him immediately.  
"Kid'll be cold," he said, gruffly. "Give 'im this." He whipped the hat off his head, and threw it at Nancy, who caught it, beaming at him. She placed it on Jack's head, and they marched out of the flat, the boy deep in thought.

"Can I?" he said, eventually, as they skipped over a puddle of mucky water, Nancy holding her skirts up so they wouldn't get wet.  
"Can you what?" she asked, smiling at him.  
"Rein...Whatsit."  
"Reinvent?"  
"Yeah. Can I?"  
"Course you can," she said. "Shall we call you..."  
"Artful," he said, immediately.  
"Artful indeed," she laughed. She scooted out the way of a drunken man wandering out the pub amidst gales of laughter, and he ducked round him, rejoining her at the corner.  
"The Artful Dodger," Nancy decided. "Cos from wha' Fagin says, you're pretty damn good at avoidin' the traps." 

**So review...? And I will be calling him Dodger from now on I think. : ) SO next chapter we meet the gang! (I have it written so it'll be up quite soon) **


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